Life After Death
by Senashenta
Summary: Just your average "boy-meets-boy during the Zombie Apocalypse" story. (RikuRokuRiku, AkuDemy.) (Co-authored with Michiko Kale.)


**Disclaimer: **_Kingdom Hearts _and characters belong to Squarenix, Disney and etc.; this fic belongs to its' author(s).

**Notes:** While Michi-darling has written KH stuff before, this is _my _first KH fic. (I do have another one I'm working on, too, though.) _Life After Death _has been in the works for literally years at this point, but now I'm determined to bloody well get it out there and finished, as three years working on it with nothing posted is ridiculous. :P lol.

**LIFE AFTER DEATH  
Prologue: Alive Inside  
By Senashenta (with Michiko Kale)**

At one time the house had been nice—middle class and comfortable, housing a happy family, or maybe an elderly couple. Now it was ramshackle and rough around the edges, windows boarded over, dark and shadowy inside. The front door was scratched, scraped and dented and painted red under all the damage. The rusty number 27 was screwed into the wood above the peephole—and the writing was scrawled underneath that, half hazard and clearly scribbled in haste, sprayed on with paint:

_HELP. THREE ALIVE INSIDE._

Roxas had seen messages like that before, on more houses, roofs and doors than he could count or cared to remember. That wasn't to say that he didn't investigate when he came upon them, but he certainly didn't get his hopes up anymore. He had, in the beginning—always held out hope that he might find other people, other survivors—maybe even his friends again, the ones that he had been separated from so long ago.

But after so many times hoping and being disappointed, he had simply given up. Now he checked, looked just in case, but never let himself expect anything beyond empty houses, maybe safe and maybe not, occasionally with a bit of food somewhere in one of the cupboards.

Now he regarded the spray-painted message with an already-heavy heart and finally sighed. Shifting, he hiked his backpack up on his shoulders absently, then passed the baseball bat he was holding from his left hand to his right before reaching out to try the doorknob.

It was predictably locked—a good thing, really, in his experience. Open doors meant anyone—and _anything_—could have gotten inside in the time it had been unlocked. Even doors that _were _locked could be deceiving, in particular when they weren't boarded over or blocked off in any way.

These were just some of the many things he had learned over his time wandering the wastes alone.

With another quick glance around to check his surroundings and when the coast proved to still be clear, he propped the bat against the door and shrugged his backpack off, yanking the zipper open and quickly digging out a screwdriver—checked to see which one is was—then dropped it back in and pulled out a different one, followed by a hammer.

After that it was a simple matter of jamming the flat head of the screwdriver into the space between the door and the frame, then giving it a few good taps with the hammer until the lock, already worn and half-rusted out, finally just gave up the good fight and let go. Roxas made a soft self-satisfied sound and returned the tools to the bag, then slung that back up onto his shoulders again.

Cracking locks and breaking-and-entering skills were something else he had taught himself over the last few months. He had gone through very hard times during his learning curve, unable to get into buildings for supplies or shelter or safety, and his body now bore the scars from that, the darkest time in his wanderings, cuts and scrapes and a lean but strong half-starved physique.

Now, with the lock dealt with, he grabbed his bat once more, chanced yet another quick look around to make sure he was still in the clear, then nudged the door open and slipped inside. Closing the door quietly behind himself, he turned quickly to put his back to the wall and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the gloom beyond.

The living room was in disarray, but he was used to that. _Everything _was in chaotic disarray anymore, inside and outside, everywhere he went. At least in the house he was safer—theoretically, anyway. First he had to clear the house and make sure it was as empty as it initially seemed—only then could he begin to relax, even a little.

So when nothing launched out of the darkness to snap at his throat, Roxas took a deep breath, adjusting his grip on the baseball bat, and steeled himself for the worst before pushing away from the door and moving farther into the house.

Checking the main floor took only a few moments—a quick survey of the living room, dining room and kitchen turned up nothing but dust and trash and a few cupboards that might have offered up food—but he would look into that later, after he had checked out the rest of the house, both upstairs and down.

The basement was next, and it required a flashlight, which was quickly retrieved from the side-pocket of his bag. Only once it was firmly in his free hand and light was shining down the stairs in front of him that he began to move downward, steps creaking under his feet as he descended.

The floor of the lowest level was old-fashioned and made of dirt, rather than wood and carpet or even poured concrete. His shoes scuffed in the sandy soil when he stepped down onto it and then paused to swing the flashlight around. He scanned the room quickly, but nothing jumped out at him. Just a few storage boxes and an old cot bundled up in one corner.

Roxas swiftly climbed back up the steps to the main floor, closing the basement door firmly: two floors down, one to go.

The upper floor of the house was less daunting than the basement, but had the potential to be just as dangerous. He had been in bad situations in every kind of surroundings in the past, and that experience made him cautious, even paranoid.

So when he reached the first bedroom at the top of the stairs and was met by a heavy _thudding _noise, followed by the oh-so-familiar, guttural moan—he was already ready for it, and it was the work of a second to adjust his stance, tighten his grip on the bat, and brace himself for the upcoming onslaught.

And it came quickly and surprisingly fast, a half-lumbering body coming at him out of the doorway. At least he was prepared, his bat up and ready to swing—which he did, hard, with all the strength he could muster. But his attacker stumbled at the last second, ducking the blow completely by accident, by some horrible luck or the exact opposite.

"Shit!"

Roxas spat out a curse, falling back a few steps himself even as grasping hands reached for him, caught in the front of his shirt, then lost their grip and fell away again. The blonde jerked back even more, then shoved his bat forward, jamming it into already-broken ribs and _shoving_ to hold distance between them.

Another grab at him made him swear again as he was backed up even more, almost right against the wall behind him—almost cornered, almost _trapped_—and he kicked out abruptly, sharply, his foot connecting with a knee with an audible, harsh _cracking_ sound. The attack finally freed up the space between them and Roxas pushed with the bat again before pulling it back, grasping it hard and swinging it around until it collided with heavy skull, shattering bone—and a heavy body dropped to the floor only seconds after that.

Roxas brought the bat down, hard, three more times anyway, just to be sure.

Then, gasping for air, he leaned back against the wall behind him for a moment. One hand came up to pluck at his shirt, now ripped and ragged from grasping hands and broken fingernails. Another one that needed replaced—the fourth shirt in so many days. Scowling, he turned blue eyes to the crumpled figure on the floor, then twisted his lips a little and kicked it. Hard. Then he lifted an arm to shove his bangs out of his eyes.

"Three alive inside, my ass. Fucking _zombies_."


End file.
